


Blaming the Honourable

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Harm, Fake courtroom is fake, Gen, Graves isn't ok, Graves make a mention of war and my heart yearns so here we are people, I wanted this to be fluffy but things got sad… FAST, Obligatory I dont like the ending of this film story, Psychological Harm, Seraphina has to act in the interest of politics, Swearing, War Mention, War description, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10923063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: As the extent of Grindelwald’s destruction comes to light, a sore and recovering Graves goes on trial for the most ludicrous charges.Meanwhile the world is brought to a standstill, and two brothers in Britain’s Ministry of Magic watch on in horror.Too bad that the law doesn’t listen to the mad.





	Blaming the Honourable

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who listened to 'Human' by Rag'n;'Bone man...
> 
> Seriously Graves is just forgotten in the film and it messes with my head
> 
> I know y’all like to think that if Percival Graves was ever found he’d return to MACUSA and everyone would be like ‘sorry fam’ and he’d be like ‘no woes no woes, now where’s my latest flame?’ but seriously? I totally dig the idea that Graves isn’t ok, he’s found driven half mad with enough scars to make a topographical map and that there’s so much suspicion around him that even the people he used to deem friends are questioning him.
> 
> This hasn't been BETA'd so you can bet your booties that all the mistakes are mine.. mine... all mine!
> 
> I don't own this universe or these character, JK Rowling does. No profit is being made from this work, it is merely a fanwork.

As he pads gingerly through the foyer of the Ministry of Magic, Newt Scamander’s breath catches and flutters as if he’s struggling in deep water. The tension throughout the Ministry is heavy, tar-like and dark, it makes Newt’s shoulders ache as if he’s been carrying the weight of the world on his them. It’s almost suffocating, like a thick strong hand around his throat, blocking his airways. The oxygen doesn’t reach his head, and his vision swims like a ripple across an otherwise calm lake. He almost trips, allowing the ground to come up to meet him, but he maintains his composure as he casts a rather judgemental eye over the giant statue of the minister.

Something’s deathly wrong, and Newt can feel it as if it were a bug beneath his skin, crawling and searching desperately for some sort of sustenance, infectious and deadly. No one else seems to recognise it though, they go about their day as if this tension were simply normal. Aurors and Ministers are dreadfully serious people, that much Newt knew, but even he knew that this was not the everyday vibe of the Ministry.

Today they’re all deadpan and emotionless. They’ve lost their autonomy, and they all scuttle to and fro like heavy wooden puppets made to move against their will by some all powerful figure. Newt stares at them as they pass, heading to their own respective departments without a care in the world. It unnerves him to see them all this blank.

Newt knows the horrors of war, of what that kind of torment can do to a man, and what shellshock looks like. Yet, he also knows that this is not shellshock, not from a war at least. This is smug, and the way everyone walks around with their heads buried in today’s issue of The Daily Prophet only makes him more suspicious.

He knows he should be heading to the Department of Magical Creatures to have his final draft of manuscript authorised, but the way unease clings to the dark, glistening foyer makes him decide in a split second to change direction. He heads left towards the lifts, towards the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

When he sees Theseus his nerves ease slightly. The sight of his imposing, powerful elder brother always makes him release a breath he doesn’t realise he’s been holding. Newt guesses it’s something to do with the war, the constant fear of never seeing the person who shares even the most fundamental traits with you makes reunion all the more breath taking. He’d never admit that to Theseus, though he guesses it’s the exact same for his elder brother.

Theseus regards him with a nod and smile, the crow’s feet at his eyes crinkling like old paper. His eyes are bright, but they can’t disguise the deep, bruising circles beneath them which show the evidence of numerous sleepless nights. Newt knows that Theseus and sleep aren’t the best of friends. His brother hasn’t slept well at all since the war, and no matter what Newt says he won’t talk about it; Theseus never talks about the war, of the constant terror that grips a man’s bones as he runs out onto a blood stained graveyard that promises a quick, meaningless death.

Newt smiles back, eager to make his brother a little more cheerful. He’s not much of a talker himself, so he hopes that it’s enough.

Theseus, having just come back from a meeting with the Minister, joins Newt as they head into his department, passing dozens of empty and abandoned desks. Energy clings to them, fresh and warm like they were vacated not too long ago. Theseus raises an eyebrow at them sceptically, unimpressed by his trusted department, and Newt instinctively falls in step behind him so he can avoid that disapproving gaze himself.

Gathered around Theseus’ desk at the far end of the large, dark, room are a group of young Aurors, huddled, whispering together like a mob. They’re hunched over Theseus’ desk, trying to shove each other aside to get a better look at whatever the offending article is.

Theseus doesn’t say a word, and instead stops a good two desk lengths from the group, folding in his arms in scrutiny. Newt comes to stop beside him, glancing up at his brother’s noble profile, the grip on his battered leather suitcase growing tighter and tighter as his heart thunders against his ribs anxiously. Something’s off, and it makes Newt clench his jaw unconsciously.

The Aurors don’t seem to notice their superior, opting instead to just continue muttering amongst one another. There seems to be no sense of cohesion between them until one young man in a heavy tartan suit steps forward, smoothing his deep blue tie as he coughs for attention. This, if Newt’s memory serves him right, is Auror Flynn. He’s a determined fellow from what he can recall, eager to be out in the field and fighting crime, though Theseus frequently warns him against his overconfidence, reminding him that as soon as his pride gets the better of him, he’ll be killed. It’s a grim reminder for the young Auror, the expectations placed upon him and the responsibility his position carries, but it’s one that Theseus had to learn the hard way.

Auror Flynn leans over the desk, picking up the distinctively large broadsheet of The Daily Prophet. He shakes it viciously, causing it to straighten and become stiff at his command. His eye run over the front page as he perches his backside against Theseus’ desk, smirking slightly as he comprehends the front page news.

“Show us then!” One of the Aurors, Auror Chaplin it sounds like, chirps.

“I bet he’s looks half – bleeding mad!” Another jokes, the voice belonging to Auror Addinaul.

“Quit being an idiot Flynn and show us the damn – “

Auror Flynn, having marvelled at the sight of the pleading, desperate Aurors, turned the paper round with a smile, displaying the front page as if it was a certificate or the newest broomstick on the market. The Aurors all gasp, leaning in as if they have all being encapsulated, beckoned closer by the article which stretched across the front page.

Newt felt the air leave him quickly, making his lungs stick and his stomach ache as if he had been winded. His heart skipped a beat before picking up its previously thundering pace, bruising his bones from the inside. He feels clammy and sick, like he’s been left in the desert without water. His mouth has gone dry and he feels weak at the sight of the paper.

Beside him Theseus remains silent and still, and at a quick glance may be seen as unaffected and unbothered. He was still angry at his department for their lack of professionalism, and his powerful stance had not changed since they arrived. Yet Newt knew Theseus better than anyone else, and he knew that the way Theseus’ nostrils flared dangerously was in disgust, not anger.

Newt felt a wave of sympathy for his elder brother wash over himself.

How hard the news must be for Theseus.

Turning his attention back to the paper being lovingly brandished by Auror Flynn, Newt forced himself to read the headline despite the trembles which pulsed through him. He squinted at the black, gut wrenching letters which spelt out heartlessly: MACUSA’S HEAD AUROR TO BE SHIPPED TO NURMENGARD.

The title, which made Newt’s heart drop into his mouth, could never prepare Newt for the charmed picture that moved underneath.

Ever since he had left New York, Newt had exchanged letters with Tina, determined to stay in touch until he could return with his finished masterpiece in hand. He was always eager to hear about what was going on in New York, what had become of Queenie, if Jacob remembered them, if Tina’s new position was as rewarding as she had dreamed. Tina seemed keen to write back, and asked after him and his beasts, asking what adventures he’d had, asking what his brother was like, what Theseus was up to. The letters flowed easily, and Newt found simple joy in being greeted by the American stamped envelopes.

It was in Tina’s third letter that her handwriting had taken on a rather uncharacteristically shaky nature. Newt had merely passed it off as a hurried letter, something done during a patch of spare time, which was hard to come by as a crime fighting, swash-buckling Auror. It was until he came to the last paragraph that he realised that the letter wasn’t scruffy due to its swiftness in production, but in fear induced shakes.

_‘Do you remember what I told you about Mr Graves, Newt? How he was a good man? That despite his flaws, despite his egotistical and stubborn nature, he was always a caring, kind man? Do you remember, Newt? I hope you haven’t forgotten._

_The fact of the matter is that Graves was an honest, determined man who would rather die before he allowed injustice. He was scary, of course he was! It was his job to be scary, Newt, you understand. The unlawful witches and wizards of America had to know they would be fighting a losing battle if they ever decided to stand against Percival Graves!_

_Graves was a good man! And he deserves every ounce of respect we ever gave h_ _im!_

_I want you to remember Newt because Graves deserves to be reme_ _mbered, not just because he was the Director of Magical Security and not because he was powerful, but because he was a human who had dreams and hopes and fears._

_Don’t listen to what they tell you, Newt. Graves was an honourable man. …_

_We found him today.’_

Newt learned all about Graves’ character, the true Graves, what he was like, what he had done in the name of his country. He learned that Graves had seen war and hellfire, and that no one had ever asked if he was ok. He learned that Graves, descended from prestige and old money, didn’t care for the titles that determined his life. He learned that Graves couldn’t care less about what people thought of him. He learned that Graves had practically no friends, that people regarded him as brutish and dogmatic. He learned that Graves himself admitted he was bad with people, bad at making friends and keeping relationships.

Newt learned everything about a man that was no more, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit to wiping tears from his eyes at the man’s story.

_‘They’ve forgotten him, Newt,’_ Tina had written, _‘Percival Graves has been forgotten by the people he trusted most.’_

Newt had seen enough of war to know what that kind of isolation could do to a man.

Newt also knew that Grindelwald’s hideous façade of the man was perfect, managing to even fool Graves’ long-time friend, the Madame President Picquery. His mannerisms were first class and even his posture went without suspicion. Grindelwald had stolen not only the man’s identity, but his very fibre. Though Newt only got to meet the bloodcurdling mask which Grindewald painted on himself, he knew that the real Graves would likely be no different in his appearance.

Looking at the picture, Newt knew with a shaking breath and sweaty palms that Grindelwald’s transfiguration had been perfect. Or at least **had** been back then.

The man in the photo, the real Graves, was nearly unrecognisable. He appeared to be in a chair, strapped to its frame by cruel, almost torturous, thick leather straps which pinned back his head at the crown, and his arms at the wrist. Though the photo was only in black and white, Newt knew that the buckles were scraping into his already scarred and bruised skin, making Newt’s stomach jolt like he’d suffered whiplash. Graves moved frantically in the photo, straining against his restraints as if he was reaching out for someone, anyone who cared.

But it was the look in his eyes which made Newt want to turn his head away in shame. Graves’ eyes were like ink, black without any speck of white, soulless and petrifying. Whoever Graves had been wasn’t there anymore, instead he was now a jittering, shaking mess whose eyes darted to and fro as he avoided the flash of the press’ cameras. Newt found he could not break away from them eyes, could not break away to look at the sullen cheeks or the matted hair or the sprinkling of facial hair. The eyes of the man he’d helped save unnerved him, and Newt could feel his knees quake, threatening to give way.

The man was broken beyond repair.

The Aurors, eyeing the photo as if it were a prize possession, whistled and chuckled as if they were impressed by the shadow of Percival Graves.

Auror Flynn, having got his fill of the shock on his co-workers face, turned the front page back to himself. He grinned, scarily delighted at the sight of the horrors on the paper. Shuffling to settle himself on the edge of Theseus’ desk, he cast a smug look over the group of Aurors surrounding him before beginning with a slight cough: _“‘MACUSA’S HEAD AUROR TO BE SHIPPED TO NURMENGARD, by Norma Skeeter,’”_

“Trust her to write garbage like this!” One of the Auror’s chuckled.

“Let him read it!” Another snapped, impatient.

Auror Flynn raised an eyebrow at the rabble, before tipping his chin forward and deciding to continue; _“‘In time of such terror and tribulation, you would think that our bravest, most heroic Aurors would remain vigilant in the face of evil; yet, as I sit here in MACUSA’s notorious, dark wood court I find myself questioning that notion._

_From prime stock, Percival Graves had been the great ancestor of Gondolphus Graves, one of the sacred twelve of American Magical Law, and had attended the most prestigious school in the Americas: Ilvermorny, where he had been sorted into Wampus much like his family before him. Yes, you would be forgiven for thinking that Percival Graves was the perfect example of a man in modern wizarding America. Pureblood, educated, and frighteningly strong. In Britain we would no doubt consider him to be amongst the greats, those to be remembered as heroes._

_Yet, even great men must fall it seems._

_He’s far from the handsome, imposing man we have no doubt all seen in the papers before, no, he’s nothing more than a shaking, manic mess before me now. He jitters in his chair, shaking and rocking frantically back and forth, muttering something about his master Grindelwald; no doubt mad._

_I find myself shocked, who would have thought that such a great, highly praised war survivor could fall so low?_

_I have no time to question myself as all falls silent in the courtroom. Seraphina Picquery, a wise, wondrous woman who has been known to reduce men to tears, stands. She commands silence, and everyone lowers themselves into their seats sheepishly. It’s like we’ve been told off ourselves, despite this trail being only about one madman._

_She casts a judgemental eye over the catatonic offender. As we all know, they were loose friends back in Ilvermorny, both taking on the role of Prefect during their final years. But I now doubt whether that past will bring Percival Graves any sympathy._

_‘Percival Graves,’ she begins in a voice that demands attention, a voice that pulls your back up straight and your head high, ‘you have been found guilty of the following indictments: the desecration of the official Statute of Secrecy, treason of wizardkind, and acts of terrorism towards wizards and No-Majs alike.’_

_There’s a sharp intake of breath across the courtroom, and everyone is on the edge of their seat waiting for Graves’ delusional comeback. All are eager to hear what the man has to say for himself._

_There’s a low gurgling noise from the seat in the middle of the room and the way Graves rocks becomes wilder and wilder in every passing moment. The man doesn’t even form proper sentences anymore and saliva dribbles down his chin. He’s barely even a shadow of the man he was, and I can guarantee to you, dear reader, that if it weren’t for his murderous, psychopathic nature, we would all feel great sympathy for him._

_The Madame President is impatient though, she doesn’t have time for his half formed, spluttering words._

_‘Bind him.’ She commands, and a dozen Aurors step forward, wands at the ready. Despite the way Graves growls, eyeing the Aurors like a feral beast, the truly heroic Aurors cast thick restraints to come over him, holding him down like the animal he is._

_Graves lets out a broken cry, but no one pays him any attention. This is the show of a man who wants to get away with his crimes, he wants someone to release him so he can continue his half-mad spree. None among the audience are convinced by this performance, I assure you._

_The President doesn’t fall for the trick either as she begins to read the statement presented in front of her: ‘You stated, Mr Graves, that on the night of October the 2nd, 1926, that you had left the Woolworth building at approximately 22:50, and headed downtown, the opposite direction to your current residence in the Upper East side, is this correct? Mr Graves?’_

_Percival Graves, or what’s left of him, chokes back some words. His eyes, which are bloodshot from his crocodile tears, peer widely at the President from where she stands, alleviated. A beat passes, the court holds it breath, but no other sound comes from the lunatic._

_Unfazed, the President continues; ‘Why, on the night of Grindelwald’s arrival into New York, did you head into the streets of Manhattan away from your home?’_

_Graves shudders as if he’s been hit with the Cruciatus curse, pulsating grotesquely as his eyes dart up towards the ceiling. Maybe he’s asking for deliverance, but I guess if he is it’s far too late._

_‘Heard screaming… screaming… heard it… the screams… in my ears, the screams, the screams…’ He manages to somehow stutter from his gargling mouth._

_‘Screams from?’ The President challenges, she’s unimpressed by the man who she trusted as her right hand._

_‘Men… women… children… so many… screams… so many, so many… like the war…. So many, the screams, so many. ‘_

_By the time he manages to finish this performance, we are all, pardon the pun dear reader, gravely bored. The façade of the babbling victim is quickly getting tiresome, it makes the audience roll their eyes in disgust. It’s distasteful to keep this act going, but mercy Merlin Graves milks it for all it is worth._

_‘And it did not,’ the Presidents words snap, causing Mr Graves to look at her in terror, ‘at all, occur to you to call back to the building for aid?’_

_‘No time… no time…’ he bubbles, shaking his head, ‘had to help…. Had to… the screams…’_

_Madame President Picquery sighs, detesting the man’s parade, and continues to read the statement without further regard for the drool covered maniac in front of her, ‘It was then stated, Mr Graves, that you were seen approaching an alley way around 6th avenue. Correct?’_

_Graves says nothing, his arms and shaking now and his eyes continuously roll into the back of his head. He’s covered in sweat, and the stench is enough for many of those present, myself included, to cover their mouths in disgust._

_‘Approximately 30 minutes later you were seen leaving the alley, unharmed, and following a hooded figure, am I wrong?’_

_The man chokes on air at the accusation, which is no doubt true. His throat constricts as it fights for air, the shock of hearing his guilt spelt out must be rather heart-stopping for a man who believed he could fool one of the most respected and powerful wizarding communities in the world._

_‘That figure, Mr Graves, was Grindelwald was it not? The man you lead back to your house on the Upper East Side? The man you were seen entering your residence with?’_

_‘Disillusionment… Imperius curse… disillusionment… didn’t want to…. Never wanted to…. Made me, made me…’_

_The President, having long since grown impatient, raises her voice fearlessly in the face of Mr Graves’ evil, ‘Answer the question! Yes or no! Was it Grindelwald?’_

_Graves openly sobs now, tears flooding from his eyes as we learn of his treachery. I can barely hold my excitement of waiting for justice to strike down upon the blood stained hands of a once impetuous Graves. He cries, yes it was Grindelwald, and that yes he let him into the house. This earns a mutter from us all, now that we know that Graves’ was always acting in the interests of the Dark Wizard._

_‘And Mr Graves,’ The President does not let up, she doesn’t allow a single moment to pass, because Mr Graves only needs a moment to plead and beg and earn someone’s sympathy, ‘is it true that you gave up secrets of your fellow Wizards, of the nature of Credence Barebone, and of the governance of this organisation?’_

_Graves wails like a wounded dog, it’s a pitifully desperate sound that makes the faces within the audience twist. He’s a sorry figure of a man really. ‘In my head… through my head… it hurt, it hurt…. Through my head… hurt my head… never meant to… made me do it…’_

_Seraphina Picquery casts a suspecting eye across the courtroom, taking in the accusing looks of ministers, aurors, and press alike, making sure that we all see her face, hardened with determination to bring the law against this man. She lets a moment pass, before stepping away from a chair and descending the steps of the court slowly, imposing._

_‘Percival Edward Graves, you deliberately conspired with a known terrorist, exposing the secrets of vulnerable witches and wizards, and actively supported in the infiltration of the Magical Congress of the United States of America. I am in no doubt that you were fully conscious of your treachery and so I, hereby, find you, Percival Edward Graves, guilty of conspiracy, corruption, and treason.’_

_The empty cries from Percival Graves in his seat fall on deaf ears. It doesn’t matter that he’s sobbing hysterically, or that his hands grip in the arms of the chair so tight his knuckles turn white, or that he’s screaming from the back of his throat about being tortured, or the scars on his back, or his promise of protection to the Second Salem Boy. None of it matters under President Picquery’s hot gaze._

_She’s found him guilty, and so, he is._

_I guess one could extend a hand of sympathy. Not for Mr Graves of course, you understand. Mr Graves warrants no sympathy, no tears should be shed in the name of a madman and his delusional babble. No, it is not him that deserves a moment’s prayer, but those he has hurt along the way. The Aurors of his department which had to stand in the face of adversity, the Muggle Senator Henry Shaw which was killed in his name, or the Second Salem Boy who was led to his death by the outstretched hand of the predatory terrorist._

_Without a moment to lose, President Picquery draws her wand, holding it aloft with confidence as the doors to the courtroom open. ‘Percival Edward Graves, I sentence you to indefinite imprisonment in Nurmengard’s high security prison upon these charges.’ There’s an excited murmur that passes through the audience as the evil, heartless wizard throws himself around in the chair like a child, screaming gutturally like he’s been poisoned from the inside out. Mr Graves is the kind of man to believe that the world owes him something, like his heritage should allow him to dictate others to do his bidding. As of now, the world has given him what it owes: a cell door with his name above it._

_Auror’s from his own department step forward. I recognise the rich brown skin of Auror, Miss Mannings and the untamed curls of Auror, Mr Conley. Despite the fruitless protests of Auror, Miss Goldstein at the door, Auror Mannings removes Mr Graves’ wand from its holster. She shows it to him, allowing him to watch as his fate unfolds, before she braces the thick ebony end in one hand and the silver coated handle in another. Her brow stiffens as her arms tense, Auror Mannings is a powerful woman, and it takes her barely a moment to snaps his wand before Mr Graves’ eyes._

_If he’s affected he doesn’t show it. I feel that Mr Graves has likely cried his fill now, and the adrenaline which has spurred his meaningless tears has all been spent up. Mr Graves is at his rawest now, and it’s easy to see the brain-fried wizard beneath his clam exterior._

_Auror Conley pays him no heed as uses his own wand to release the binding on Mr Graves. He catches the man as a slumps forward like a broken doll, limp and lifeless. There’s not another sound heard from the man as Auror Conley and Auror Mannings lift him from his seat, each with a hand under his armpits._

_Silence descends on the courtroom as the once all-powerful Percival Graves is dragged from the room to his cell, where he will be detained before transportation to Europe tomorrow morning._

_I must say, dear reader, how liberating it is to watch as the good and just wizards of this world win once more against the terrorising evil that tries to take foothold. Justice comes to all, and I cannot be anything short of proud to say I was here today at the making of history. With the erroneous tyrant that was once Mr Graves safely brought to justice, I am delighted to say that not only New York, but the world, will sleep a little safer tonight.’”_

As he concludes the article, Auror Flynn grins and his eyes shine as if he’s in charge of everyone in the room. He rests the paper against his lap, giggling again at the sight of the grief stricken wizard whose charmed photo moves on the paper’s front. “Can’t believe he drooled…” Flynn snickers.

“Loony,” Auror Batt shakes his head, “would have probably killed us all.”

Auror Thompson sighs, nervously, “Don’t say that…”

Auror Brown leans forward, shaking his smoking pipe at the pair, “I wouldn’t worry too much, and he dribbled over himself like a baby! Probably pissed himself – “

“How dare you.”

For the first time since their arrival Theseus has spoken. Newt looks up at his brother, forcing his stiff neck to turn, blinking away the tears left over from hearing the article of Percival’s conviction. Theseus’ eyes are aflame, red with hot anger much like the rest of his face which has turned disturbingly blotchy. Newt knows that his brother is likely to strike out at any moment, finding catharsis for his anger in destruction. He should probably step in front of him, try and calm him down like the responsible sibling he is. Yet, he can’t bring his feet to move. It’s like he’s been rooted to the spot, and it makes him queasy.

Newt’s eyes scrunch shut as Theseus’ voice booms throughout the office, loud enough to make his chest hurt and his bones ache. “How fucking dare the lot of you!”

The Aurors, now huddled from protection against their infuriated superior, all turn their gazes down like scolded school children. Auror Flynn has removed himself from the desks edge, and has taken to standing guiltily with the rest of the Aurors. Their faces are pale, and for the first time since Newt’s met them they look genuinely frightened. Criminals they can cope with, but their own kind they apparently cannot.

Theseus, with nostrils flaring ferociously, storms towards the group. They shrink away from him like he’s a rogue werewolf on a rampage, unpredictable and deadly. Their eyes are wide, and Newt is sure some of them are close to tears at the sight of his angered brother. Theseus stops before them, his eyes running over them as if he’s deciding which to deal with first. Newt isn’t sure if Theseus will use a verbal lashing or a literal one, and his hand wavers over his own wand instinctively so he can intervene when he needs to.

Luckily it’s verbal.

“You call yourselves Aurors,” Theseus shakes his head, his fisted hands bouncing against his thighs as he holds himself back, “Aurors!”

Some of the group shrink back even further, bumping into one another as they try to escape Mr Scamander’s onslaught.

“You have no fucking clue, do you?” Theseus’ chin quivers, fighting back the urge to grab the nearest member of his department and rip them to shreds, “You think because you sit here with your fancy fucking qualifications and your fancy fucking titles that the world should bow down at your feet and beg for dominion!”

All of the Aurors look guilty, and Newt feels a small prang of sympathy for them. Thankfully he’s never been on the receiving end of his brothers tirades, and for as long as he lives he never wants to be.

Part of him thinks he should step in and stop his brother, the other part thinks they deserve Theseus’ harsh words for their ignorance.

“None of you know what real horror is! None of you! You go out on the streets of London and you pretend like you mean something, well, let me tell you, you fucking don’t mean shit! You take pride in laughing at a war hero! A man, who fought tooth and nail so fuckers like you could walk free!

“You step foot in a warzone, you carry your best friend when he’s been blasted apart in the name of hate and then you can come to me and tell what the fuck you’re worth!

“Percival Graves is worth a thousand of the lot of you put together! A thousand! And you say his name with a smile on your lips like it’s the funniest fucking joke you’ve ever heard!”

A dozen of the Aurors now hang their heads in shame, and Newt is pretty sure that Auror Murray has begun to cry. There’s muffled whispers from the group, though whether it’s out of fear of Theseus or shame for their behaviour Newt isn’t sure.

Theseus drags a hand through his red curls which match Newt’s with a shaking hand. His palm is littered with small bloodied crescents where he’s dug his nails in in frustration, and Newt fights his motherly instincts to go and heal his brother’s hand.

Calmer than before, Theseus holds a hand out to the now shaking group, his voice smooth and calculated, “If you think for one moment that you’re staying as my Aurors then you can think again. Now, hand over your papers.”

The group exchange looks of shock, wide-eyed and perplexed. They’d entered the Ministry as Aurors, led by one of the most powerful and celebrated men in the country; now they’d be leaving unemployed and shamed. “But sir…” One protested as no one dared to move.

“What part of hand over you papers do none of you fucking understand?!”

As if smacked across the face, stunned Aurors began to move forwards, reaching into their coat pockets to produce their official Auror papers. Auror Batt was the first to hand over his livelihood, his muttered apology falling deaf on Theseus’ fury red ears. Soon, the rest followed, some crying, some begging for kindness, some apologised hoping it would earn them back their jobs, others mumbled about it only being a joke. Theseus cared for none of it, and remained void as he stared ahead, ignoring the people he once trusted as they scuttled towards the lifts.

Eventually the last few Aurors entered the lift, and the only ones that remained in the now eerily empty office were the Scamander brothers.

The air was undeniably electric with tension, and the magic that rolled of the Theseus is waves caused Newt’s throat to choke up like he’d inhaled smog. Not only had the news of his friend’s conviction driven him to blind anger, but the sheer audacity of his Auror’s behaviour had caused Theseus to clam up in a dangerously silent frustration.

Newt ignored the stirring of his insides which warned him against the unpredictable, tense coil that was Theseus, and decided to step forward.

Theseus had always been the same, even since they were children, one warm, heartfelt hug from his adorable baby brother and all his pent up frustrations seem to fall away into nothing. His muscles would unknot and his heart would calm, all from the magical touch of his baby brother. Newt knew that his brother, down to his most fundamental parts, was a simple and humble man who could be made sense of quite easily if one only took the time to investigate.

On the balls of his feet, Newt wrapped his rather gangly limbs around the broad frame of his red faced, grumbling brother. Theseus wasn’t angry for long as Newt’s long delicate fingers began to run through his curls and a soft voice shushed him in his ears. A heavy breath left Theseus as his larger, heavier arms came to wrap themselves around his brother, determined to keep his brother close as possible.

“He never deserved that, Newt,” A hot, sharp breath fluttered over his neck as Theseus’ arms pulled him closer and closer, accidently beginning to crush him, “on the battlefield he was so…”

“I know,” Newt continued to comb his brother’s hair as if it were the most precious material in the world, made of spiders gold, “I know.”

Theseus’ head drooped to rest against his shoulder as the hands which held him in a vice like grip grappled his thick blue coat. There were muffled tears coming from his brother, his strong, unshakeable brother, and it made Newt’s heart ache. Newt spared him the shame, letting him sob out his woes against his shoulder. For all that Theseus was, he was not heartless. He may have been stubborn and proud, but he was not a monster. He had a heart and he had a soul, and he would weep for those he deemed fit.

Theseus had just lost his best friend, the man he’d run through the burning pits of hell and come out the other side with a smile with. He been broken and torn apart by the man they spent years trying to fight, and was deemed a villain because of it. He’d lost a token of his past to a prison holding war criminals and sympathisers of Grindelwald and now the man who had been through hell and high-water was to be reduced to a number at the top of a prisoners list, and Newt wasn’t about to stop Theseus from grieving.

“You mustn’t listen to what they say,” Newt stroked the back of neck, hoping that his brother couldn’t hear the way his voice cracked as tears sprung from his eyes, “don’t listen to them, Graves was a **good** , and an **honourable** man.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never actually posted anything here, not because I’m shy, but because I can never get anything fucking finished lmao. 
> 
> Also my writing style is pants!
> 
> I mean, what’s going on with these tenses? Madness!
> 
> In other news though I wrote this two hours before an exam. I know? Revising? Pssh! Who has the time?! 
> 
> This is that one fic where I basically hate the ending and have decided to play around with ideas.  
> Like I just hate that no one cares about Graves like, seriously? Ok so maybe there’s that argument that Graves never existed and yeah ok that’d explain how they’re so bla-ze at the ending about it and the parallel between them but seriously? Y’all expect me to believe that Grindelwald goes from Europe to America and makes a fake persona and infiltrates his way in and gets himself trusted in the space of a night? Really?! I ain’t buying. 
> 
> FEEL FREE TO COMMENT, GIVE GUIDANCE, SEND SOME LOVE, ALL THAT JAZZ!


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